Yes, these weeks the mind has been swimming around in dizzying reflective channels... picking up faint atonal ambient songs of Eternal Ignorance and Twice-Shy Experience -- whether "real" or not, dimly audible in the city air, these late hours and minutes of confused clarity.

("Something's going on, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?")

In the middle of the dark wood of my life, I made a dumb left turn and got a job. The bosses had made their money in the Market and with that money they made a Metro magazine. I was the editor. Once the bosses discovered that the magazine was not promoting the town from which it emanated, their visits to the office became increasingly tense. They had grasped that we, the, staff, were, in fact, the enemy. They could feel our eyeballs bearing into their backs.

They accused us of one unforgivable workplace crime, which one of them described as "giving the fisheye".

While on Dantesque situations...

Before hell mouth (Wall Street), Ezra Pound encountered William Blake, running on a corkscrewing road on a steel mountain.

And the running form, naked, Blake,Shouting, whirling his arms, the swift limbs,Howling against the evil,his eyes rolling,whirling like flaming cart-wheels,and his head held backwards to gaze on the evilAs he ran from it...